


spider silk

by SpectacularNostalgia



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cameo by Black Widow, Demonic Possession, Familiars, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mentions of Peter's Parents, Possessive Behavior, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 02:19:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10981323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpectacularNostalgia/pseuds/SpectacularNostalgia
Summary: Peter wasn’t always a witch.Once upon a time, he was just a boy who played with redbacks and daddy long legs and black widows, legs crawling up his forearms. His mother smiling, wicked and sharp and magic, with spells under her breath and charms etched on her skin. She weaves spider silk, silver and strong, from her hair and tears and blood and binds and holds stronger than chains and shackles.We are Arachne’s brood, brothers and sisters and blood.Peter was never magic. Until he was.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's no canon basically. Harry and MJ are Peter's childhood friends, and Harry doesn't go to Europe. Also, Gwen will appear later on. And Eddie too.
> 
> Just trying urban fantasy. :)
> 
> Lovely art by white-tiger-boi
> 
> https://white-tiger-boi.tumblr.com/post/161052363716/based

Peter twines colourful thread into witch’s ladders, beads and feathers and hair braided into knots, hanging above his bed and every threshold. Spiders whisper secrets and play with his creations, bells tinkling like laughter, cobwebs shine like silver under fluorescent lights.

It’s the first and last thing his mother taught him.

Peter wasn’t always a witch.

Once upon a time, he was just a boy who played with redbacks and daddy long legs and black widows, legs crawling up his forearms. His mother smiling, wicked and sharp and  _ magic _ , with spells under her breath and charms etched on her skin. She weaves spider silk, silver and strong, from her hair and tears and  _ blood _ and binds and holds stronger than chains and shackles.

_ We are Arachne’s brood, brothers and sisters and blood. _

Peter was never magic. Until he was.

His mother and father left, and then they were nothing more than flesh and bones washed away by the sea.

Peter wakes up and oh.

There’s fire in his veins and wonder in his eyes and shadows whispering behind his ears, he feels like storms crashing against the sea, a whirlwind of fire and  _ magic _ and the lightning crackling under his skin.

Oh, Peter thinks and mourns. His mother and father are gone gone gone and Peter can feel the heat threatening to spill out of his skin, his body too small and too young to hold so much yet so little. Oh, and Peter can hear the wind howl and wail, it’s her spider silk closing on his chest - tight and constricting, like breaking glass and everything is empty empty empty. 

It’s the darkness (the bad kind, like oil slicks and screams) closing in, jagged edges and razor-sharp spikes.

It’s in the half-finished tapestry on the loom, the sun and stars slowly blooming across the fabric, bursting in the endless expanse of black. It’s in the empty spinning wheel, empty spools scattered on the floor around it. It’s on the patched sweaters and knitted cardigans, in the hole on the left leg of his father’s trousers and the rip on his stuffed dinosaur.

Peter hid under his bed, arms around himself, magic spilling out like waves.

Uncle Ben finds him a day later, sad eyes and a heavy heart, his hand was warm and heavy and Peter won’t stop crying on his shoulder.

“I miss her,” Peter murmured, spindly limbs and weak shoulders. “I want her back.”

He could, Peter thinks, if he’s strong enough - if he  _ knows _ enough. Except, he doesn’t know how to weave skin and flesh, mold bones and breathe life into lungs. And there’s no one to teach him how.

Peter doesn’t show his Uncle Ben and Aunt May that he can see beyond the spaces between, that the spiders whispers their secrets to him, that the colourful braids were spells of protection and the first and last thing Peter’s mother ever taught him.

Peter Parker is a witch, and he drowns.

* * *

 

Peter Parker is ten years old and going to public school. The only good thing about school is Harry Osborn and Mary-Jane Watson.

They’re sunshine and joy, bottled gold and fireworks by the sea. Peter finds himself smiling, looking at their baby teeth and rosy cheeks and reaching for their warm hands and friendly touch. They glow like tongues of flame in the dark, warmth in the winter. He gives them Witch’s Ladders, twined with his hair and charms for protection whispered against the colourful thread. They wear it around their wrists, around their ankles, around their necks.

The world is a sea of names and faces, cruel children and their sneering grins, nodding adults with empty smiles and flinty eyes. Peter comes home with dirt-smudged shirts and bruises under his shins, tear stains swept away by Mary-Jane’s handkerchief and Harry’s pale soft hands.

Peter doesn’t feel the electricity churning beneath his veins, nor does he feel the world at his fingertips. Instead, he feels like Peter Parker, four years old, on the precipice between magic and no magic. Like the all the air already fled and he was left gasping and crying because there was nothing there. It was that lull of knowing that oh, mom is  _ gone _ and the world grinds to a halt, dust motes frozen in the air and everything is grey.

Except Peter knows he can snap necks with a look, rot flesh from inside out, curse and blind with a whisper, drive them mad with illusions. Except he knows he shouldn’t, not that he couldn’t.

_ With great power comes great responsibility, _ Uncle Ben loves to say, loves to remind, with knowing eyes and righteous gaze.

Except Peter doesn’t feel great. He feels like a witch of old, hiding and fearing, spell books under his bed, spells whispered like prayers, shadows reaching for his grasp, charms and wards and talismans scribbled on notebook margins. He is careful not to wish too hard lest it come true, time and space and  _ reality _ shifting just  _ right _ to make it happen. He tries so hard to make sure that no one takes too much blood, hair, or skin, because pieces of himself still has magic in them and what if an evil witch gets it?

Aunt May worries and Uncle Ben pats his head. They’re worry and concern and  _ love _ and just so much love that Peter can’t take it because it’s too much and he’s a witch boy who can only make witch’s ladders, and listen and talk with spiders and shadows. He can’t spin his hair into silver spider silk, nor can he weave the beautiful tapestries and elegant fabric his mother once made. He can only twine thread into braids and murmur spells for protection for Uncle Ben and Aunt May and Mary-Jane and Harry because there’s no one else there.

A particularly bad day had Peter with blood on his mouth and tears staining his cheeks, a curse just forming on his lips, tongue and cheeks bitten instead.

“Peter!” Aunt May is all over him, with worry in her eyes and her gentle hands making sure he isn’t hurt anywhere else. He is trembling limbs and lightning at the tips of his fingers, except Peter is trying so hard not to cry.

It’s like the world around him  _ knows _ he is different.

“It’s okay, um…. I bumped into a pole, won’t happen again,” Peter tries to smile, and Aunt May is twice as upset. There’s blood on his teeth and shadows under his eyes. His shadow shifts and reaches, cooing and comforting, except Aunt May does not see it for she doesn’t have a lick of magic in her.

Aunt May’s frown deepens, knows Peter is lying and Peter is just tired.

Before Uncle Ben reached them through the threshold, someone knocks. It was a strange rhythm, almost off-beat, but familiar.

Uncle Ben answers the door, except no one is there.

He frowns, miffed that  _ teenagers with too much time _ played a prank.

Peter blinks and approaches, can taste magic lingering in the air and knows it isn’t his. The magic is like embers, seemingly cool yet burns just as hot, subtle and smooth as silk, like wicked sharp smiles full of secrets. Like mom.

On the porch is an envelope, addressed to Peter.

Uncle Ben picks it up and gives it to his ward.

Peter opens it, can feel the magic etched on the ink, lining the edge of paper, pooling around the wax seal.

_ We cordially invite you, Peter Benjamin Parker, to  _ __  
_ a special gathering of only similar individuals _ __  
_ of various backgrounds in a Masked Gala at _ __  
_ Stark Industries Tower. _ __  
_ 200 Park Avenue _ _  
_ __ 30 April 2008

_ Please RSVP to Stark Industries by 15 April. _ _  
_ _ One _ _ seat reserved. _

_ P.S. We are well aware that Sir Peter Benjamin Parker _ __  
_ is still not within age of majority and requires a legal guardian. _ __  
_ We will be allowing  _ _ two _ _ adults to accompany Sir Parker, _ __  
_ however they will be given a designated area to wait until _ _  
_ __ Sir Parker exits the premises.

Peter blinks again.

That’s on Beltane. A month and a half away.

“Can I come?” Peter looks up to his Uncle Ben, eyes bright and hopeful. Peter tries to bat the despair away, looking imploringly at his Uncle. He has a good feeling about this.

Uncle Ben and Aunt May both look conflicted, and oh how Peter wishes he can charm his family to let him come but he won’t because that’s just  _ wrong. _

Ben Parker relents and offers to accompany him.

Peter beams, glowing like sunlight and dewdrops on cobwebs.

Anything for Peter. Ben thinks, and smiles.

* * *

 

Peter is wide eyes and awed gazes, can taste the magic in the music and feel it hum under his skin.

Witches gathered and talked, vampires and their thralls and fledglings fed and kissed where shadows are thick and oppressive, weres feasted on raw flesh served of all sorts, the fair folk danced barefooted and unfettered.

There are children in attendance too, but Peter saw fangs - sharp and deadly.

Peter is too elated and overjoyed to feel small and lonely. He isn’t alone, after all. There are others  _ like _ him that isn’t his mom.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, slim and strong and  _ brimming _ with magic. He looks up and meets green eyes, bright with magic. He sees red hair and thinks embers.

“Peter Parker?” she asks, lips painted red and shadows hugging her form. She wears a veil of cobwebs made from spun spider silk.

“Yes,” Peter replied, yearning to reach out and touch the spider silk. It’s as strong as his mother’s silk, with whispered spells and charms woven in every thread.

“I am of Arachne’s brood,” she smiles, wicked sharp and  _ dangerous _ and oh so full of power. She leans back, assessing and testing. “We are brothers and sisters and blood.”

“Yes,” Peter breathes. “And spun silk and cobwebs in forgotten corners.”

Her eyes shine, full of magic full of  _ power _ , satisfied and amused. “Come, you have much to learn.”

* * *

 

Peter learns.

He learns to spin hair into thread and twist it around spool, learns how to breathe charms and spells and  _ magic _ into fabric, sew protection into ripped clothing and turn rags into something fine and beautiful.

Peter learns how to brew and how to call to the shadows to do his bidding, learns how planets align and moon phases, learns how to shape his magic into spells and harvest for potion ingredients. Peter learns how to curse, hex, charm, and ward. He learns how to melt into the shadows and walk between spaces.

Peter learns how to end a life, take a life, and restore a life. He knows how to take souls as if they were crops for harvest and return it. He learns how to mold bones and break and strengthen them, create flesh and skin from nothing, breath life into lungs.

He weaves and creates his clothing, brimming with magic and shadows and spiders. Peter has grown pale and fragile, long-limbed and just shy between boy and man. He paints his nails with spells, sometimes filed and sharpened into talons of all things.

Uncle Ben and Aunt May doesn’t like it, but they love Peter all the same.

Peter Parker is fifteen years old and his once tormentors stay clear, their hind brains finally firing off signals that scream  _ threat threat threat _ whenever their gazes met.

Mary Jane Watson and Harry Osborn stay by his side, even if Peter’s smiles are wicked sharp and his words cut through flesh and rot it from the inside out.

“Prove it,” Harry grins one day, bright eyes and somewhat skeptical.

Peter smiles and calls every spider in school.

They crawl and rush in, skittering limbs and snapping mouths, eyes  bright with magic. Spiders circle Peter’s feet, they crawl up his limbs and both Harry and Mary Jane look uneasy with how easily Peter lets the redbacks and black widows and daddy long legs climb up his thin form.

“Wicked,” Mary Jane jokes and both Harry and Peter laugh.

In that moment, everything’s going to be okay.

* * *

 

Except it didn’t

* * *

 

Peter Parker is sixteen years old and his Uncle Ben is dead.

Peter can raise him from the dead, reach for Uncle Ben’s soul in the afterlife, breathe  _ life _ back into his lungs. Except, he couldn’t.

For some reason, Ben Parker had no desire to return to life - return to his family. Return to Peter.

Peter Parker is sixteen years old and he’s angry.

His magic lashes out, burns the Witch’s Ladders hanging in every threshold, turns spider silk into embers. The darkness wails and screams ( _ killhimkillthemkillthemallkillkill) _ and Peter grits his teeth and tries not to snap.

Peter cries and tries to fix the ashes that used to be Witch’s Ladders, except his magic is spilling and churning like waves in a storm, chaotic and  _ raw  _ and discordant. Instead, he grinds bones into dust and uses it to ward the house. He draws blood on every threshold and enchants a circle around their home.

Aunt May is strong and kind and it just  _ hurts _ that Peter could do so little to keep her safe. Keep Uncle Ben safe.

Peter once thought an evil witch will try to hurt him, see him as a threat, try to claim whatever domain or power his mother had him inherit. Instead, a human, so mundane and so  _ lacking _ , shot and killed Ben Parker. The murderer had the gall to roam the streets.

Peter spun a cloak of spider silk, fine and delicate like cobwebs, spells for protection and stealth and speed and strength woven in every thread. On the cowl, he wove a spider.

He walks the streets of New York at night, much like a shadow chasing after light, and  _ sees. _

Peter Parker is sixteen years old, made of rage and magic, and sees that as long as there are people like the man who killed Uncle Ben, then it’s all just the same old song and dance. Peter Parker is sixteen years old and decides:

I want to change this.

* * *

In the streets of New York, better watch out. There’s a boy roaming in the corners, hiding where shadows seem to eat the light away and where spiders wait for prey. No one sees his face under the shadows of his hood, only sees the spider woven in linen, almost-life like.

Some say he’s a creature of the night, with fangs under his pale mouth and a hunger for blood. Others say he’s a demon, preying on the weak-willed to drag them to hell. Other think him a myth, to scare the common folk.

He is none of those.

He is a witch scorned and screaming for justice.

Killers would find themselves bound in spider silk stronger than chains, black widows crawling up their bodies. Would-be rapists would find clusters of tarantulas crawling up and out of their mouths, brownbacks crawling under their skin. Thieves and muggers end up hanging by their feet, held captive by darkness with a thousand eyes watching their every move.

It started with a whisper. Now it’s a thunderous cry.

None could really remember what the boy looks like, can only see his smile and the shadows caressing him like an old friend. Not even cameras can catch him.

Every picture is grainy and static, full of shadows that shouldn’t be there.

He walks among the people, their eyes and perception sliding over him as if he isn’t there. Until he is.

New York watches and can sleep a little easier, a little witch boy is protecting her now, too.

* * *

Someone’s bound to hear that one of Arachne’s brood is in New York.

Owls, crows, ravens, rats, lizards, snakes, and other animals that could fit through his window visit. All bearing letters, sometimes with offerings of compensations. Peter has seen gold, milk teeth from a dhampir, harpy feathers, a sliver of Iðunn’s apples.

They all ask for one thing.

Spools of spider silk  _ he _ made.

At first, Peter thought it is some elaborate joke the vampire from the down the street made. Except, the letters pile up, and Peter already sent twenty spools and many still ask for more.

Aunt May took the visit from the many animals in stride, would leave food on the porch.

After the first three waves of at least fifty something requests, they died down to at least ten a week.

Something falls apart, because that’s just Peter’s life.

His magic is strong and volatile and  _ uncontained _ , lightning bolts flashing and killing the electricity in the house, floating furniture and broken china. In school, it’s students flung at walls without provocation, chalkboards writing themselves, school supplies flying, spiders skittering across hallways full of students.

The mundane student body thinks the school haunted. Mary Jane and Harry Osborn and every child of night simply gave Peter Parker looks, from concerned to wary.

Everything comes to a head.

_ You need a familiar. _

A card simply said, elegant script, a black widow etched on top.

Peter sighs and thinks he doesn’t need a familiar, but....

He does.


	2. Chapter 2

Eddie Brock is mostly brawn than brains. Athletic, with defined muscles and a strong body - he’s also the typical American Alpha Male. Blond hair and blue eyes, with strong chiseled features and healthy skin to match.

Peter doesn’t know what to think of him.

He was just walking home, and there comes Eddie Brock, with determined eyes and eager smiles.

“I’m Eddie Brock. You’re my witch, and I’m your familiar,” he declares simple, as if it’s a truth etched within his bones.

Peter freezes, can feel his magic rising and  _ latching _ onto the older man, settling in like Eddie is an old friend. The man’s eyes glow gold and Peter knows that it’s  _ true _ except.

Except.

He sees Uncle Ben, pale and unmoving, still not  _ breathing. _

“No,” Peter says, takes a step back, and another, and another. “You can’t be.”

“But I am,” Eddie insists. And he is, Peter knows and Eddie knows, he is.

Peter shakes his head, tries to rein in  _ pull  _ his magic back within himself. It fizzles and trembles, ready to combust because  _ he’s my familiar my familiar mine mineminemine _ and Peter doesn’t want to see Eddie Brock, pale and unmoving, still and  _ not breathing _ .

Peter runs.

He just didn’t count that Eddie Brock is fast enough to follow.

_ You could hide at the ends of the earth, but he will still find you. _

Aunt May blinks in surprise when Peter slams the door open, expression thunderous and indignant. If she saw a lick of fear there, she didn’t comment.

“Bad day at school?”

Before Peter can reply, Eddie Brock is just outside the door, smiling sheepishly at her. She raised her brow. Eddie Brock is five years Peter’s senior.

“Hi, I’m um… this is kind of complicated, but I’m supposed to be his familiar - it’s something like a magical assistant.” Eddie flushes, embarrassed not to know his witch’s name. “I didn’t catch your er… nephew’s name? It just seems stalker-ish, I know, but I managed to follow him here.”

“It’s alright. Peter will come around.” Aunt May is already coaxing him in with a sunny smile and a warm meal. “So, you’re going to help with his magic?”

Eddie Brock nods, the fact that he’s a familiar is like saying the sky is blue. “Yeah.”

Aunt May hummed. “How did you know?”

“I… it’s like I’ve been waiting for this, like ever since I’ve been little, I sort of knew? I knew that I was supposed to a be  _ someone _ to somebody and when I saw Peter’s face, I knew it was him.”

Then Peter is in the dining room, lips pink and pouting and oh, Eddie wonders if all familiar are as taken with their masters as he is.

“If you’re my familiar,” pink tinges Peter’s cheeks. “Carry my dinner to my room and fee-“

Peter stopped, suddenly aware of how his command  _ might _ look like. “Never mind, just take the food to my room and organise my stuff.”

Eddie grins and follows.

* * *

 

Eddie had taken to following him whenever he went out.

He had a camera with him, taking pictures from the sidelines, eyes focused on the viewfinder. It was an old thing, with rolls of film and tiny mirrors. Peter expects that it will be like other cameras, full of shadows and the wicked curve of a smile.

Eddie gives him stills of a boy under a hood, stolen shots and soft edges. There are colours, faint and and desaturated - a hint of pink on his lips, a light flush after a nasty hex, the golden glow of his eyes.

One has Peter glancing to the side, head tilted and listening to voices only he hears. Another is Peter running, people part like the red sea, a blur of faces and confusion. In some, Peter falls from tall buildings like an avenging angel, arms spread wide like wings.

Eddie is proud of them, blue eyes clear like cloudless skies.

Peter feels his heart stutter, world awash in colour, warmth in his chest. Every photograph is beautiful, perpetual motion caught and immortalised, the subject seemingly ready to leap out of the stills.

_ So this is why people thought cameras stole souls, _ Peter thinks - holds his chest and tries to still his fluttering heart.

Peter keeps them in scrapbooks, with pressed flowers and feathers knotted in thread. Memories preserved, a snapshot of Peter spinning thread is warm air and sunlight streaming through curtains, sepia and  _ nostalgic. _ Every picture is worth a thousand words, stories written on every slash of colour on glossy paper, a sliver of a soul anchoring the faces within the viewfinder.

Life goes on for the both of them, strange looks and wary-knowing gazes in passing. Harry and Mary Jane give Eddie strange looks, but does not say anything - content to see the flicker of a satisfied smile on Peter’s smile, flushed cheeks and boundless energy. Then there’s Eddie, with his big grins and hesitant gazes, trying to reach out.

Aunt May is patient and supportive, and Peter chokes hard on empty air because he didn’t know  _ why _ he deserved so much love and understanding when all he did was weave spells into Ladders and twine spiderwebs to silk.

Peter knew something had to give, eventually.

School ends and Peter’s summer is full of cloudless skies and golden light. Peter walks the streets at night, Eddie silent and  _ strong _ by his side. New York is a blur of lights, neon signs trailing like stardust, spiders and shadows nipping at Peter’s heels.

The unsavoury crowd of New York doesn’t learn, then again, Peter could hardly blame them. What could one half-pint  _ child _ do to them, anyway?

Break their bones and rot their flesh, drive them mad with living nightmares and screeching darkness, bind them to his will and damn their souls.

Peter doesn’t kill, but there are fates worse than death.

Everything comes to a head, Peter reminds himself. Still he dances barefooted under the moonlight, sings old forgotten lullabies in the wind, punishes criminals deep into the night.

Peter wonders if it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, or that the Fates were simply cruel, or such is the luck of Arachne’s brood.

Peter Parker is seventeen years old, bleeding and broken in a dark alleyway, shadows and spiders skittering across his skin, Eddie Brock’s hands trying and failing to keep his blood from pooling around his body.

Peter is seventeen years old, a witch of Arachne’s brood. Once upon a time, he wasn’t magic until he was.

Now, it looks like he won’t me magic for much longer.

* * *

 

Peter blinks, can smell burning sage and rosemary in the air, wards made of ash decorating the ceiling. Bandages cover his torso, phantom pains of a nasty curse slowly burning out of his flesh, Eddie asleep in a chair who will undoubtedly get an awful crick on his neck later.

Peter shifts and tastes… something in the air. Oily and thick, like molasses and charcoal, cold and slick that left grit in Peter’s mouth.

He narrows his eyes and opens his mouth.

“Wake up,” he commands, and Eddie’s head snaps up and-

Pitch-black, possessed black - 

Eddie’s body slams against the wall, furniture and pictures clattering.

Eddie smiles and it’s  _ wrong _ . Something is wearing his face, the wrong kind of darkness, a slash of teeth and a manic glint.

“Arachne’s  _ spawn _ ,” it cackles.

“Demon,” Peter sneers and Eddie’s form melt into the shadows, magic dissolving in the air. Peter turns and almost cries out, Eddie’s hands are big and strong and he’s choking and - 

“Stop!” Peter grits out, and Eddie - not-Eddie’s hands fall at the sides and a scowl mars his handsome face and Peter’s heart  _ twists _ because he wants his Eddie back, with his smile that shines brighter than the sun.

“Give me Eddie,” Peter holds back the tears and he almost cries when the pitch black fades away, terrified blue eyes meeting gold.

Heart pounding and lungs heaving, Peter rushes forward and envelops his familiar in a desperate embrace.

“What did you do?” Peter asks, terrified and worried and what can he do?  _ “What did you do?” _

“I chose you.”

Peter’s world come crashing down.

* * *

 

Days pass and Peter hasn’t slept. Dawn and dusk blur into whirlwinds of old spell books and demonology texts. Peter sent hundreds of missives to every witch he knew, asking -  _ begging _ \- for help. Every binding and severing ritual were no help.

Eddie’s contract holds true, there’s no other way out.

_ A soul for a life saved, _ _   
_ _ A vessel for blood you gave, _ _   
_ _ a witch’s soul you wish to have, _ _   
_ __ to be with your beloved.

Peter muffles his frustration.

Days pass and he sees less and less of Eddie. Demon eyes stare back, a slash of teeth for a smile and bruising grip and possessive mouths.

Peter is lightning and fire and  _ determination _ , and the demon, with its poison words and malicious smiles press kisses on his knuckles, on his eyelids, behind his ears.

_ “Mine,” _ the demon breathes, lips chapped and cold on Peter’s hand. The creature presses a kiss, deceptively soft. “All mine.”

Peter does not speak, yet he does not move either.  _ I will drag you to the deepest pits of hell, rend your flesh from your bones, tear your spirit and crush your soul. _

Eddie’s hands remove Peter’s cloak, cupping the back of his neck, other hand tracing lazy circles on Peter’s palm.

It’s a game the demon likes to play. He pushes, teasing and testing, trying to make Peter  _ submit _ . Peter is a witch first and foremost. He doesn’t bow to anyone but himself.

He narrows his eyes when the demon begins to unbutton his shirt, blunt nails digging into porcelain skin, lines trailing bright and red. The demon smiles,  _ “You’re mine. All mine. Even this body is mine.” _

Peter’s temper flare, bright and hot, an explosion of stars and thundering heart. “Eddie belongs to  _ me.” _

Peter blinks and realises. Oh, he lost the game, but - but!

Eddie is his first.

It’s a truth etched on his bones. A simple fact of life. Like the sky is blue and the sun rises from the east. Eddie belongs to Peter before Eddie belongs to anyone else.

Peter lost the game, but he already won.

The demon’s brows furrow, could not comprehend the joy and hope sparking in the witch’s eyes. Pretty pink lips curve into a smile, wicked and sharp and  _ powerful. _ Magic sings in the air, and Peter is ligtning storms and crashing waves.

“You can’t own Eddie. I’m his witch and he is my familiar.”

The demon freezes, realisation settling in. He takes a step back, aware of his loss.

“If I were you,” Peter starts, stepping forward, raw power and a living force of nature. “I recommend that you  _ leave _ , before I bind you to eternal servitude.”

The demon throws his head back and laughs. The creature sounds like grinding stones and screeching metal, grates against the ears. “Well played, little witch. Well played.”

Then - 

Smoke. Thick and foul, like sulfur. It burns into nothing and leaves Eddie on his knees.

Then Eddie is there, tears in his eyes and lips curved into a relieved smile. He rises, shaking and hesitant.

Peter surges forward and pulls the tall man against him, bodies pressed together, bright like sunshine and warmth in the cold. They fit like a puzzle despite Peter standing on his tiptoes, born for one another, fates intertwined, a truth etched on their bones.

“My familiar,” Peter murmurs on Eddie’s neck, greedy eyes and wandering hands. “You belong to me.”

“Yes,” Eddie breathes, nose pressed on Peter’s hair. “Yours, always.”

* * *

 

Just because Peter banished the demon once, does not mean it’s gone forever.

It comes back again, and again, and again.

No matter how many times Peter banished the creature, it will try to reach from the shadows where none lurk, follow Peter’s footsteps in the snow, hide in mirrors to taste his soul.

It rips his fabrics and spreads his threads, creates cat’s cradles out of spider silk, draws blood and ruins wards. It tries to whisper in Eddie’s sleep, but a familiar claimed cannot be taken.

Peter  _ knows _ that if he keeps on the way he does, something bound to give. It’s merely a fact of his life now.

Before the other shoe drops, Peter draws a circle with his blood. There’s a bowl of water with his picture and hair, candles surrounding the circle, the glyphs black under the moonlight.

Peter calls for the demon, wrists slashed and hands clasped into a mock-prayer.

The creature answers immediately, made of shadow and sharp grins, eyes blinking in and out of its not-skin.

“Have you grown tired, child of Arachne?” The demon is made of screams and fangs.

Peter does not speak to it, gathers his magic and surrounds both of them - to bind.

“You wish to own me, isn’t that right?” Peter looks up, does not bow. “Lay your claim and taste my soul?”

“Yes,” the demon slobbers in hunger, eyes possessive and mouths screaming for a meal. “Yes.”

The witch brings his thread, feathers and beads and charms floating in the air, and begins to braid. He whispers his spell. The demon wished to own him? Then Peter is happy to oblige.

The demon realises his plan and  _ howls _ . Claws try to rip and break the circle, but magic and seals kept it at bay. It promises pain and torture and  _ death _ to everyone and anyone Peter loves and cherishes. It promises power beyond imagination. It promises to  _ rip Peter to shreds and feast on his flesh _ . The demon screams and wails and begs.

Peter does not listen.

Then in his hands, a Witch’s Ladder, made of spider silk under the full moon, binding and constrictive.

The demon blurs and shifts and turns into smoke, formless and gaseous. It tries to drag itself back to whence it came. It struggles and twists, trying to spread itself apart. Except magic pushes it into a tiny form, condensed and thick. The demon tries to slither like oil, but now that it’s trapped in its current form, it can’t change into another.

The braid glows and the demon lets out one last wail, smoke settling on the twined charm. The white silk bleeds black, glossy silk under the moonlight.

Peter gives it a satisfied smile and twines it around his neck and wears it like a collar. A mark of ownership.

‘I don’t see any problems with our arrangement, you own me now, don’t you?” Peter laughs. He feels the impression of enraged indignation, smother by fear and frustration. “Everyone wins.”

The demon, grumbles and hates Peter for the technicality.

* * *

 

“What do you think?” Eddie Brock shows Peter Parker his latest stills.

A boy under a cloak made of spidersilk, with cobwebs for embroidery and faint hints of a wicked smile. The boy has a slender form and weak shoulders, lips a light pink and just the hint of a flush on his cheeks. His hands are raised, bare-footed and body still in the air, about to land. Shadows dance, a flickering bonfire the only source of light, washing the photograph in warm orange and tarnished gold.

“It’s very life-like,” Peter is looking at Eddie, eyes bright. “Like he will just jump out of the picture.”

The familiar grins, bright and proud. He pushes his photographs inside an envelope, addressed to JJ Jameson.

“Glad you think so,” Eddie leans back.

They’re in Peter’s room. Eddie sitting on Peter’s bed, pillows thrown about him, blanket pushed at the foot. His legs are long and his calves are well sculpted, his feet are just shy of reaching the end.

Then there’s Peter, on Eddie’s lap, hands on the blond’s shoulders, his gaze bright and hungry. His cheeks are pink and his hair tousled, shadows laugh in his ears and lightning races in his veins.

He leans forward and presses his lips on Eddie’s. It’s a soft and chaste thing. Yet sparks explode behind his closed eyes, and magic and heat and  _ desire _ thickens the air.

“My familiar,” Peter claims, pulling back. Eddie is grinning, boyish and so, so happy. The blond traces the brunette’s cheek, memorising the curves of his witch’s face.

“My witch.” Eddie agrees. Peter kisses him again, presses his tongue through chapped  _ warm _ lips, tilts their head to  _ breathe _ . “I am yours.”

Peter smiles. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw yis I finally finished this! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Want to talk to me in DMs? Come join this lil server I made for SpiderVenom fans!
> 
> https://discord.gg/z4X5vk8


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